


Hollow Bones & Glass Hearts (aren't we all just made of stars)

by Atlanta_Black



Series: Harry Potter One-shots [11]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Author Doesn't Know How to Use Tags, Character Death, Character Fate, Internalized Trauma, Kit Approved, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Pre-Relationship, Sensory Deprivation, Trauma, Voldemort POV, Voldemort is a mess, Voldemort needs therapy, implied Abraxas/Tom, introspective, like a giant mess, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 13:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21476596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atlanta_Black/pseuds/Atlanta_Black
Summary: Voldemort has a hallow clutched in his hand but it does not belong to him. Does not trust him. Does not bend to his will. Does not know how to do anything other than strain towards it’s master, to the one it always returns to.Harry falls to the forest floor, green eyes staring blankly at the sky and Voldemort collapses moments later. This is always the same.In every life before, Harry comes back. Defeats Voldemort and lives the rest of his life feeling as if something is missing. As if something has been torn away.In this life he goes left. Goes left and sticks his hand into the essence of everything Voldemort is. Wraps the string of his existence around his hand and pulls. Goes left towards the moon, left towards towards the ocean. Says this life, this life is mine.
Relationships: Abraxas Malfoy/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Series: Harry Potter One-shots [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875151
Comments: 26
Kudos: 399
Collections: Tomarrymort Live Writes





	Hollow Bones & Glass Hearts (aren't we all just made of stars)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [local_doom_void](https://archiveofourown.org/users/local_doom_void/gifts).

> I wrote this for a live-write and I would never have come up with the concept if it wasn't for the long long conversations that Kit and I have had this weekend. So, you have Kit to thank for this as well. 
> 
> Thank you Aster and Jade for being so excited for the live write and eagerly following along I love you <3

Harry Potter dies. This never changes. He looks at his friends and says _ no _ . Says _ I will not let you die for me. Will not live if it means you might die_. This can never change.

He walks in the forest, a hallow on his finger, a hallow covering him. One on him, one around him, one owned by him. Walks in the forest and death watches. Death waits, watches the one he chose and one who defies him. Watches them circle each other as if their fate hasn't been decided since they were born.

Harry Potter walks into the forest ready to die. Ready to let his death mean something; to be more than another name turned to ash in the mouths of those he loves.

Voldemort is waiting. Feels the paranoia creeping down his spine, through the body that is barely holding together. He does not trust this. Does not trust death to finally let the boy die. Does not trust fate to just let the string snap. Every time he tries to erase this brats existence and every time he is denied.

Voldemort has a hallow clutched in his hand but it does not belong to him. Does not trust him. Does not bend to his will. Does not know how to do anything other than strain towards it's master, to the one it always returns to.

Harry falls to the forest floor, green eyes staring blankly at the sky and Voldemort collapses moments later. This is always the same.

In every life before, Harry comes back. Defeats Voldemort and lives the rest of his life feeling as if something is missing. As if something has been torn away.

In this life he goes left. Goes left and sticks his hand into the essence of everything Voldemort is. Wraps the string of his existence around his hand and pulls. Goes left towards the moon, left towards towards the ocean. Says this life, this life is_ mine._

  


⬷

  


The last thing he remembers is the boy falling to the ground. Eyes blank yet bright, even in death. Remembers the feeling of triumph that had filled his veins. Remembers the feeling of victory. Of this is it, I've finally won, finally beaten the prophecy. It named him savior but I have prevailed.

He did not. Before he can do more than laugh, more than let the victory fill his veins, he falls to the ground. Falls like a puppet with its strings cut. Like a paper doll cut free.

  


⬷

  


For a while there is nothing. Nothing but the darkness and the feeling of being watched. Nothing but silence. It is almost as if he is a wraith again, lost to the world. If it weren't for the lack of pain he would think he was a wraith again. Would think that the boy won even in his death.

For a while there is nothing. He does not know how long this lasts. There is no concept of time in the place that he is in.

Then there's pain. He has no body in this strange, liminal space but still he is burning. Is on fire, is screaming at the pain of it. Except he's not because he has no voice. He is ripping at his skin, is ripping at his veins. Except that he is not.

For a while there is only pain. Is only the burning and the stitching and the feeling that he deserves this, _he does he does he does_\---

The pain leaves. Leaves as quickly as it had come and he floats there. Still sobbing even though he has no body. Still screaming even though he has no voice. The feeling of being watched never leaves.

He doesn't know how long he floats there but it's long enough that eventually the pain becomes nothing but a distant memory. Becomes nothing but a half formed dream. A thought stuck on the edges of another thought. A worn photograph that's blurred around the edges.

He begins to think that he is dead. Begins to think that there was never anything other than this space; than this strange, half formed place that is nothing and yet everything. Begins to wonder if he is even real. Perhaps he is the soul of this place, perhaps he is stitched into its fabric, into its existence.

He doesn't know how long this lasts.

The pain begins again and he is screaming, sobbing, begging, ripping at his skin. He is not just on fire, he is fire. Is the flame and the heat and the flesh burning. Is the white hot flame licking at your fingers and the fingers being burned. If he had a throat it would be raw but he does not. If he had skin it would be clawed off but he does not.

He does not, he does not, he does not.

And then suddenly, he does.

  


⬷

  


It takes him a while to remember how to open his eyes. To remember how to do anything other than lay on the too soft surface and just feel. His body doesn't hurt or at least not like the fire from before. He is not burning, is not turning to ash inside the blankness that had consumed him.

His body is not burning but he supposes it does hurt. Aches in a strange way that feels almost foreign. He does not know how long he was in that blank space but everything feels strange. The air on his skin, the beat of his heart, the blood in his ears. His muscles ache. The taste of parchment is lingering on the back of his tongue.

He opens his eyes. Opens his eyes and immediately closes them again. The void had been just that, a void. There had been nothing. Had not been light, had not been darkness. He did not have eyes to see, did not have limbs to feel. There is light here, there is so much light.

His chest is rising and falling without his consent. He had forgotten that your body just breathes for you. Just casually does what it must to do to keep you alive. He had forgotten that he was alive.

Is only half aware of who he is.

He remembers---

Remembers green eyes. Eyes like the forests, like the trees. Like the curse that he had sent at a boy too small to be anything but a child. Like the color of the tie he had worn in school. Eyes so green they seemed as if they would burn through him.

Remembers a man with blue eyes that always stared at him with contempt. Remembers him saying the name Tom Riddle as if it was a curse - a dirty, broken word.

Remembers his body rising from the cauldron, paper skin and hollow bones. Remembers the feeling of _ never fucking being enough _. Of defeating death but still feeling as if there was something missing. Of never fucking managing to earn anyone's respect unless it was at the end of a wand.

He remembers a girl with hair like fire and eyes that same unnatural green. Green like the curse he had sent at her. Remembers the way she had stood, arms spread, eyes wild. Had said _ No. Not Harry. Not my child _. Remembers staring at the child in the crib and thinking this is the one born to defeat me. This is the one named savior, named hope.

What makes _ you _ so special that fate chose you to defeat me? That fate chose you to defeat the defier of death.

Had he really defied death at all?

_ You will never amount to anything Tom Riddle, a boy had snarled at him. _ A boy with hair like ice, like snow. A boy who had stared at him with contempt but touched him as if he was holy. As if he was the answer to a prayer unspoken.

What if that boy had spoken the truth?

He opens his eyes and is greeted by the cool green of the Slytherin bed hangings. The light is not as bright as he had originally thought. It's only the dim green light of the lake and after a few moments his eyes adjust.

It takes a while to remember how to move. To remember how to arrange his limbs into a semblance of order. Perhaps this is why it takes so long for him to notice that they are the wrong limbs.

The last thing he remembers, the last thing that had happened, he had stood in the middle of a forest and watched the boy collapse to the ground. Had stood there, bones brittle, skin aching and felt victory wash through him as if he deserved it.

His bones are not brittle. His skin is not paper thin. He is not the same pale, bone white color that he had come to hate. To despise. The color of weakness, of yes I defied death but this is what it has brought me to. Yes he defied death but it wasn't good enough. It wasn't perfect and he _ had _ to be perfect.

His body aches but it is also a body. A proper, human body that does not have the same odd glitches that the one he crafted from magic had. There is a suspicion forming in the back of his mind and he struggles to his feet, panic surging through him.

He might have forgotten how to function in a human body but he had not forgotten what panic tasted like. The iron taste of fear sitting on his tongue. He stumbles to the washroom, limbs clumsy and uncoordinated. Stumbles, trips, catches himself on the sink and there, there in the mirror...

He's fifteen again. Fifteen and human. Fifteen and human and alive and this should not be possible, should not be happening.

He is ancient, is forever. Had defied death and lived to see the future. He is not this wild eyed child staring back at him in the mirror. He is not human, is not mortal.

This child is mortal. He can feel it in his bones, in the blood racing through him. Can feel it in the erratic heartbeat and the way emotions are flooding his brain.

This is wrong. Wrong and yet, the memory of his time in the emptiness is still fresh. Is becoming more terrifying with every moment that he spends awake. He does not know where he was or how he had gotten there. Does not know how he has gotten to where he is now.

He is fifteen. No longer Voldemort, defier of death but a child. A child who is still round faced and wide eyed. Although, he supposes the child's eyes are only wide because his eyes are wide. Because these are his eyes, his hands, his shaking limbs. 

He sinks to the ground, the tiles cold against his skin. This is his body, his life. His shaking hands and stuttering breaths. His panic trying to force its way up his throat.

He breathes in. He needs to find his wand.

  


⬷

  


It takes him longer than he would like to fully remember how to function normally. How to walk without looking strange. How to do something with his face other than stare with wide eyes.

He takes a moment to look around the dorm and has to stop and stare. It's not right. He racks his memory before deciding that no, this is not right. There are too many beds and even if there weren't, it's clear that people are sleeping in the wrong places. Something is wrong.

He had assumed that he had woken up in the past. In his fifteen year old self, in the life he'd already lived. He does not know how that happened but it has. Now it seems as if maybe even that isn't correct.

He grabs his wand and leaves the dorm. It's surreal walking through the common area. Surreal in the same way a half forgotten dream feels. As if he'll blink and it'll disappear. It'll disappear and he'll be back in that void, reduced to nothing again. Reduced to nothing but atoms and thoughts and impressions of voices in the back of his mind. To flames and fire and ---

He's on the ground. On the ground, wand clenched tight in his hand and he hisses out a breath, lurches to his feet. It must be the middle of the day because the common room is empty, thank Merlin. No one needed to see him like this, especially since he's not sure how different this world is.

He keeps going. Leaves the common room and heads up, through the dungeons. He's reached the second floor before he realizes that he still hasn't passed anyone. Still hasn't seen a single person. Not even a ghost.

He stands there for a minute. Looks up the hallway, looks behind him. Maybe if he stands still for a moment, maybe someone will appear. No one does. There's nothing but silence and the sound of the wind outside hitting at the windows.

He still doesn't move. Maybe he's still in the void. In that blankness, that empty space. Perhaps this is just a trick, a mad joke. Stick him in his childhood body and in Hogwarts, _ in home _. Yet still, leave him all alone. Leave him alone with nothing but his thoughts and his memories and burning green eyes imprinted on the inside of his skull.

Maybe he's dead. Maybe he never fucking defied death.

He doesn't move. Later, he won't be able to tell you how long he stood there, staring blankly into the hallway, but it's long enough for him to know, there are no other children in the castle with him.

He finally shakes himself and keeps moving up the stairs. The castle feels empty but he has to make sure. Has to check every room and then, then if there was truly no one here...

Well, then maybe he would see what happened if he flung himself from the highest tower. If he's really dead, it shouldn't do anything right? It shouldn't fucking matter. If he's really dead, then nothing matters because he failed. Just like Abraxas had always said he would.

  


⬷

  


The third floor is empty and the fourth and the fifth and the sixth. There's nothing, no one. He hasn't seen any animals, any ghosts, any people. He's alone. Still alone which he supposes is what he deserves.

He'd never given any thought to the afterlife, not once he'd cheated death but he supposes, that if there is one thing he deserves, it's to be alone.

The seventh floor is empty and he's getting ready to head to the astronomy tower when he spots the gargoyle. The one that leads to the headmasters office. He can't imagine why there would be someone there when there hasn't been anyone anywhere else but he did say he was going to check everywhere. Merlin forbid he doesn't check every nook and cranny.

He stands in front of the gargoyle for a while, just breathing. The novelty of having a body still hasn't quite worn off even though he has fully remembered how to move properly. He still finds himself focusing on each breath that pushes in and out of his lungs. Still finds himself tuning into the heartbeat he can hear thundering in his ears.

He thinks he had almost forgotten he was human while he had been trapped there. Thinks that for a while, he had been convinced that he was nothing but atoms. Nothing but pieces holding the universe together while the voice of humanity washed over him like the tide.

He does not know where he was but he does not want to return. Is thankful that he is human, is alive and breathing. Has blood running through his veins and breath pulsing through his lungs. He is so, so thankful. He didn't know he could be thankful for something this inane.

He finally pushes open the gargoyle and then pauses, one foot on the bottom stair, heart thundering. Very faintly, filtering down from the office, he can hear voices.

He blinks and then has to stop himself from running up the stairs. This is the first sign of life that he's had since he began his journey up from the dungeons. The first sign that he is not alone. His hands are trembling and he has to take a moment to just stand there and breathe. A moment to swallow down the panic trying to creep up his throat.

It's been so long since he interacted with another human. He finds himself almost terrified now that he's faced with the prospect of actual human interaction. He breathes in and breathes out. Places his hand on his chest and lets himself feel the way his chest rises and falls with each inhalation.

He is not alone.

Moving up the stairs seems to take an eternity and yet no time at all. He wishes his hands would stop fucking shaking. Wishes his body would stop betraying his weaknesses.

The voices are louder now, he can clearly hear two different people speaking but he can't make out the words. He slips his hand into his pocket, curls his finger around his wand. This is real. This is real and he is human and there are people on the other side of this door.

He takes the last step forward, knocks sharply and pushes the door open.

He meets Dumbledore's blue eyes first. It takes him a moment to figure out what looks strange about Dumbledore's face and when he does, the knowledge hits him like a bludger to the chest. There is no contempt hiding in his eyebrows. No judgement lingering in the creases of his eyes. There is no hatred, no mistrust. There is only blue and openness and confusion.

He sucks in a sharp breath and turns his gaze to the other male in the room. When he sees him though, he immediately wishes that he hadn't.

The other male is leaning against the window frame, arms crossed, one blond eyebrow arched. This is a face that Tom has seen only in pictures, a face that does not belong in Hogwarts. His eyes are like ice, hair like gold. He's smirking, staring at Tom with confusion in his eyes.

He does not belong here and Tom recognizes absently that his thoughts are turning hysterical. He does not belong here, _ does not, does not, does not _.

Dumbledore should not be in this office but Grindewald should not be anywhere near this school.

  


⬷

  


"Tom, are you okay? Did you need something?"

He tears his eyes away from Grindewald and looks back at Dumbledore. Dumbledore is staring at him, eyebrows creased, eyes worried and Tom does not know how to deal with this. Does not know how to deal with a Dumbledore who worries about him and looks genuine while doing it. A Dumbledore who seems completely unconcerned with the dark lord leaning against the windowsill.

"There's no one in the school." he hears himself say, voice thin and high. He feels disconnected again, as if this could not possibly be his body. Could not possibly be his life.

Dumbledore's eyebrows crease even further and he exchanges a look with Grindewald that Tom cannot begin to comprehend.

"It's summertime, Tom. There are only four of us here, just like every summer." he says slowly, palms flat on the desk, eyes solemn.

Tom blinks, stares. Every summer. That implies that in this life, in this odd misshapen world, he wasn't sent back to the orphanage. Implies that Dumbledore had looked at him and seen the truth hiding in that one request. Tom, Voldemort, both of them.... They had both lied about many things in their life but that had not been one of them.

"I stay here every summer?" he finds himself asking, voice almost a whisper.

Dumbledore looks proper alarmed by this point, eyes wide and even Grindewald's forehead is creased with what seems to be concern. What a ridiculous thought, Grindewald caring about his well being.

"Yes, Tom, are you quite sure you're alright?"

"Who's the fourth person?" he asks, ignores the question. Of course he's not all right but how to explain that to someone who he doesn't know. It is becoming abundantly clear that he does not know this Dumbledore. Does not know this world.

Dumbledore blinks, exchanges another look with Grindewald who gives a minuscule shake of his head. "Well, it's the same person as always." he says, hesitates. "Harry Evans of course."

Tom blinks, tilts his head. Of course. Of course. Of course.

Who else would it be besides that boy. Besides that blasted, bastard of a boy. He blinks and sees green burned onto the back of his eyelids. Blinks and see emptiness stretched out forever.

He dimly registers that he's laughing. Sitting on the floor, laughing so hard it feels as if his chest will explode from the force of his pain. The force of the panic trying to escape him. Grindewald has moved forward, hands outstretched and this does nothing but cause him to laugh harder.

This cannot be real. Cannot be his life. Is not his life. He lived his life already. Dumbledore hates him and will always hate him. Grindewald dies in a cell, on an island. Old and alone and forgotten. They do not stare at Voldemort, at Tom, with concern. With worry shining in their eyes and leaking from their bodies.

"Oh," says a voice suddenly behind him. "I guess you finally woke up."

He twists around and there, framed in the doorway, is Harry fucking Potter. Although, he supposes in this world he goes by Harry Evans. It doesn't matter. It's the same boy. The same messy hair and the same bright, damning green eyes.

Potter is staring at him, head tilted and mouth twisted. Tom glances over to see how the other two are taking this and freezes, blood turned to ice. Dumbledore and Grindewald are both frozen, eyes wide open.

He turns wild eyes back on Potter and flinches backwards. Potter is crouched down in front of him, close enough to touch, eyes serious and mouth still, _ still _ twisted downward.

"I didn't expect you to react like this." he murmurs, voice quiet, reflective. "Maybe I should have."

Tom says nothing, doesn't know what he can say. Doesn't know what he can do. He still barely understands what's happening, cannot begin to comprehend what is wrong with this strange world he's woken up in. Potter reaches a hand out, movements slow and Tom feels his breath catch in the back of his throat.

He traces a finger down Tom's cheek and when he pulls back Tom sees moisture clinging to his skin. He blinks, frowns. Is that from him? He brings a shaking hand up to his face and oh, his face is wet. Why is his face wet?

"I thought you'd wake up angry. I never thought you'd wake up sad." Harry mutters, staring at the tears on his fingers.

"I'm not sad." he spits, the words automatic. "I'm angry and I hate you, I hate you, I hate you--"

Harry smiles, "Of course you do. You're free to hate me. I shouldn't have brought you with me here."

Tom blinks, narrows his eyes. "Where is here?" he asks, willing his voice not shake. Willing himself to not lapse into hysterics again.

Harry tilts his head, frowns. "Well, here is here I suppose. It's not a life we were ever supposed to be in but I was tired of playing the same games. Of following the same scripts."

"Not supposed to be in...." Tom echoes back, brain spinning.

Harry smiles again and Tom stares, wonders if this is what god looked like when he created life.

"Oh no, we're absolutely not supposed to be here. We're set in the same script, the same play. We follow the same fucking lines every time. No matter how much the life varies, we always follow the same lines."

Tom's mouth is dry, he has a spectacularly bad feeling about this.

"But I died. You killed me in the forest, as you always do, and I died like I always do. But when I die, I _ always _ remember. I die with the hallows burning into my soul and I remember everything and this time, I decided to not go back."&

"Why did you bring me?" he asks, almost not wanting the answer. He doesn't like this, thinks he would have preferred to stay in the never ending emptiness.

This time when Harry smiles it's vicious and Tom has the wild thought that Lily Evans would have been proud of that look. It's the same look she had thrown at Tom when he had stood in front of her, her husband dead on the stairs and her son behind her. A look that says, I know exactly what I've done and you do not stand a chance. A look that says, I will win this even if I have to burn myself to the ground.

"Because they didn't want me to and there are so very few things that they actively tell me not to do."

  


⬷

  



End file.
